Exception to the Rule
by Kelly123
Summary: Futurefic. Ellie is all grown up and married, but none too happy about it...a strange litte oneshot.


_So this is odd. To say the least._

_I have no idea what inspired this story, but I took a nap today and woke up around ten o-clock at night bored as hell and wanting to write. I didn't expect to come up with a whole story, and since it's only a one-shot I don't know if I even did, but this is what I ended up with. So it's completely AU and there is no evidence to support my little scenario, but I had fun writing it. So I hope you enjoy reading it. And Degrassi isn't mine.And the rating is just to be safe, totally not M material here.  
_

* * *

Ellie Nash wanted a divorce. Badly. Probably more than she had ever wanted anything before, more than she had ever _needed_ anything before. Maybe. Except she wasn't quite sure if a divorce was applicable in their situation. Perhaps an annulment would be more appropriate. 

Ellie Nash wanted an annulment. Badly.

Except her surname was no longer Nash. She had (grudgingly, reluctantly, sulkingly) agreed to the change when they were married, if for nothing else, then for the sake of appearances. Not her own appearance, of course, but for that of her new husband.

Except she doesn't have a husband. She has a snapshot from city hall, a crumpled legal document, and a cheap superstore band on her ring finger that for some reason she can't bring herself to remove, but that's all. There's no man in her bed.

Except for on special occasions and holidays. She can count on him to make the short trek into Canada from the states whenever his or her parents are in town, and to settle down comfortably in the one bedroom apartment that he pays a portion of the rent on like he lives in the place.

Except he doesn't. But he lets himself in easily through the heavy door with the key he uses maybe half a dozen times a year, no bag in hand, because she keeps his half of the his and hers closets and bathroom counter space stocked, just in case anyone should drop by unexpectedly. Not that they ever do, but Ellie likes to be prepared. He immediately saunters over to the fridge, in need of a beer after his trip across the border. The fridge they got as a wedding present.

Their fridge...except that its not. Except that it's hers.

That much is obvious as he pulls the door back and stares into the brightness of the chilly enclosure before him. Then he remembers that she only drinks Labatt Blue (which he detests), a fact that always seemed to escape him back when they were dating and went out. She would ask him to order her drink while she went to the restroom, and never attempted to hide her irritation when she returned to whatever concoction he had requested for her. Hurricanes, cherry vodka sours, Bud Lite...shit she would never touch unless already wasted. And Ellie never got wasted.

Except on their wedding night. But he left early after their hurried reception anyway, so he doesn't really know how she handled that one.

He reaches for one of her beers regardless, since in the grand scheme of it all, beer is beer, and notices something dark behind the blue bottles.

Because although he might not remember her preference, she certainly never forgets his, and a six-pack of Guinness is ready and waiting for his arrival. He uncaps one and takes a leisurely swig, remarking to himself about the amazing wife he has that he doesn't deserve. Because he knows he doesn't deserve her, and all of their friends know that, but for some reason she doesn't seem to realize it. All the better for him though, and he's grateful for her naivety nonetheless, because she makes his life so much easier. He doesn't bother himself with how much harder he is making hers.

He could have taken this opportunity to feel bad about what he's putting her through, but he doesn't. Instead, he takes a hearty swallow and pulls another beer from the fridge, because God knows he's going to need it when his dad and his wife get here tonight. The standard "how long until grandchildren" talk is sure to frazzle his last nerves and strain Ellie's patience to the limit.

Speaking of his beloved wife, she comes home from work about an hour or so later, uncomfortable shoes in her hand when she walks through the door he forgot to lock (she hates in when he does that) and flyaway red tendrils framing her tired face. She holds out her arms, laden with her heels, purse, briefcase and a stack of what suspiciously resembles junk mail with disdain.

"A little help, _hubby_?" she says with a little more than a note of sarcasm in her already irritated tone.

He downs the last swallow of his third beer with a smirk and lumbers up from the couch and over to her. He empties her hands obligingly, giving her a chaste kiss on the cheek. "No problem wifey. Why don't you go ahead and have a seat, take a load off darling!" When her back is turned, he deposits the load onto the kitchen table she brought from her high school apartment, which is situated in their (her) miniscule breakfast nook adjacent to the tiny kitchenette. He knows this isn't where her work things go, and that she hates when stuff is out of place, but he doesn't know where else to put them and honestly doesn't care. She will put them away later anyway.

From the fridge he retrieves them both a beer, mournfully noting that he only has two left and wondering if she would be up for a trip to the beer store before his dad and step-mom get there. He doubts Ellie's enthusiasm, but he can probably talk her into going, and probably even paying. He uncaps the two bottles and passes her the Labatt over her shoulder while standing behind the couch. A sly smile breaks out over his handsome face, and he stealthily slips his still cold hand across her collarbone and underneath the neckline of her blouse. Expert hands graze her breast and his smile widens wickedly when he catches the faintest breath of a sigh being emitted from her lips. Even though he can only see the back of her unruly red head, he knows that those lips are parted just slightly. And most likely her eyes are closed, she is swallowing hard, and her bare toes are gripping the carpet for dear life. In other words, she is putty in his hands. Just how he likes her.

"Damn baby, you are so tense. When was the last time you were laid, hmm?" he whispers, and his words earn him anther moan. " When was the last time anyone made you feel like I can baby? I can help loosen you up, you know. You remember how I used to do that don't you babe, or would you like me to refresh your memory?" He murmurs, his breath hot on her neck and lips soft against her jaw line. He gives her nipple a skillful tweak and she jerks back to reality, slapping his hand away irately and retreating to the other corner of the couch. She turns her bottle up and drains its contents with an audible gulp before slamming it down on the coffee table and standing up.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she demands, crossing her arms over her chest to hide her arousal and staring him down with fire in her eyes.

"Nothing baby. Just showing my wife how much I missed her." Is his cheerful answer, but she only scoffs and rolls her eyes.

"Jesus Christ, you are so fucked up. But whatever, go beat off if you need to, because your parents will here soon. I am going to get a shower." She tells him darkly, hating him for making her feel the way he used to, and hating her body for responding as it had.

"You sure you don't need any help?" He offers, still sipping on his Guinness and looking deviously mischievous.

"Fuck you." She spits out.

"If you insist." He responds, unbuckling his belt with one hand and advancing upon her, smirk never leaving his face.

"Very funny." Is all that she can choke out for a reply, turning sharply on her heel and moving with a purpose towards their (her) bathroom.

Except it's not funny. Not in the least.

Except she knows that he finds his little game hilarious, knows that his touches are only in jest, that he feels none of the spark he ignites deep within her. A spark she wishes with everything in her would die out, but which refuses to do so.

Except when she shuts the bathroom door she immediately leans up against its cool fake wooden surfaces and slides down to the tiled floor to collapse in a tangled heap of shapely legs and scarred arms and fiery hair.

Except when the tears start to flow she scoots across the floor and climbs into the shower fully-clothed, turning on the water full blast to drown out the noise of her sobs, not caring what temperature the water is. Because what does it fucking matter if her traitorous skin burns from icy cold or scorching heat? What does a little thing like physical pain matter when the man she is unrequitedly in love with is one room away, ripping her heart to pieces as only he can?

What does it matter that he is her husband?

Except that she doesn't have a husband. She has a marriage.

Except that she isn't a wife. She is a cover-up.

Who would have thought that Ellie Nash would fall in love with a gay man yet again?

Who would have guessed that man would have been Jesse?

"_I love you so much, but do me a favor baby don't reply. ' Cause I can dish it out, but I can't take." _Limousine, Brand New

* * *

_So what do you think? I've never written Jesse before, and I don't think he's gay or anything at all, but whatever, its just a story. Actually, the character of Ellie's hubby started off as some random guy from college that she married to keep his secret but ended up falling for, and morphed into Jesse. So that's all, let me know how odd you found it, thanks!_


End file.
